Brent.
“Have you heard about a secret room in the library?” It comes out a little louder than I meant it to, because Kazmarkis snipes from across the room about the importance of being quiet while she finishes handing out today’s outline.
“Everyone’s heard about the mythical library room,” Brent says. “It doesn’t exist.”
I bite the inside of my cheek as Kazmarkis strides back up to the front of the classroom. I have to balance the suspicion that Alexis may have been screwing with me about the library room with my irritation at the fact that we already have an essay due on Friday. Also, that Brent thinks I need clarification that a myth is something that isn’t real.
He pulls my notebook toward him and writes in the inside flap. What’s this all about? His forehead creases as he adds something. Dr. Muller?
No , I write back.
Bullshit.
I slide his pen from his fingers and cross it out.
At the end of the painfully long hour, someone says my name. He’s so quiet I barely hear it over the shuffling of papers and the zipping of laptop cases. I stand up and see Artie getting up from the table next to us, to Brent’s left.
He passes a Post-it note to me. He’s written Shakespeare sonnet 40.
“Find the book,” he says, before slipping in with the line of people leaving the classroom.
I leave dinner a few minutes early to head to the library. The tables and study carrels in the main stacks are empty, save for a few overachievers. Starting tomorrow, the place will probably be mobbed.
I search for “Shakespeare” using the online catalogue. There are several hits, but only one looks like a complete volume of his sonnets. I write down the call number on the back of Artie’s Post-Iit and do a few aimless laps around the stacks before enlisting the librarian’s help.
“Excuse me,” I ask. “But where can I find this book?”
She squints, reading the call number. “That’s in the poetry room.”
She points to a door at the back of the main stacks. I deflate a little. Is this the room Artie thought I was talking about?
“Thanks.” I slip the Post-it in my pocket and head for the room. It’s small—or cozy, if you’re being polite—with a gas fireplace and a leather couch. There’s a Scrabble box on the coffee table and a floor-to-ceiling rotunda-style bookcase. There’s no overhead light—just a faint glow afforded by the sconces on the walls.
I trace my finger along the shelf toward the bottom, past Schuyler, Shelley, before I land on Shakespeare’s Complete Works: Sonnets. I thumb through to forty and read it to myself, lingering on the last two lines.
Lascivious grace, in whom all ill well shows,
Kill me with spites yet we must not be foes.
Is this a clue or something? A riddle buried in some obscure Shakespearean sonnet? I don’t have time for this crap. I’m about to close the book when the light catches the page, revealing a series of scratches in the white space at the bottom of the page.
I run my fingers over it. Something is written here.
I hold my phone over the page for more light, but it’s hard to tell if the scratches are letters or numbers. I fumble in my bag for a pencil. Once I find one, I place the Post-it note over the markings and shade the area with my pencil. Chelsea and I used this technique to trade notes in middle school.
I hold the Post-it note up to the light to study the impression.
UP – 3
RIGHT – 8
My gaze drops to where the book of sonnets was. I hold that place with one hand, and count in my head. The book up three spaces and eight to the right is a Norton anthology of poetry. It’s a beast of a thing; I have to use both hands to dislodge it.
I’m about to give up, leave, and ask Artie why he led me on a poetry wild goose chase when I notice some sort of metal fixture at the back of the shelf, behind where the Norton anthology was. I reach and feel around the area.
It’s a latch. I pull on it, not expecting the loud click that
“Have you heard about a secret room in the library?” It comes out a little louder than I meant it to, because Kazmarkis snipes from across the room about the importance of being quiet while she finishes handing out today’s outline.
“Everyone’s heard about the mythical library room,” Brent says. “It doesn’t exist.”
I bite the inside of my cheek as Kazmarkis strides back up to the front of the classroom. I have to balance the suspicion that Alexis may have been screwing with me about the library room with my irritation at the fact that we already have an essay due on Friday. Also, that Brent thinks I need clarification that a myth is something that isn’t real.
He pulls my notebook toward him and writes in the inside flap. What’s this all about? His forehead creases as he adds something. Dr. Muller?
No , I write back.
Bullshit.
I slide his pen from his fingers and cross it out.
At the end of the painfully long hour, someone says my name. He’s so quiet I barely hear it over the shuffling of papers and the zipping of laptop cases. I stand up and see Artie getting up from the table next to us, to Brent’s left.
He passes a Post-it note to me. He’s written Shakespeare sonnet 40.
“Find the book,” he says, before slipping in with the line of people leaving the classroom.
I leave dinner a few minutes early to head to the library. The tables and study carrels in the main stacks are empty, save for a few overachievers. Starting tomorrow, the place will probably be mobbed.
I search for “Shakespeare” using the online catalogue. There are several hits, but only one looks like a complete volume of his sonnets. I write down the call number on the back of Artie’s Post-Iit and do a few aimless laps around the stacks before enlisting the librarian’s help.
“Excuse me,” I ask. “But where can I find this book?”
She squints, reading the call number. “That’s in the poetry room.”
She points to a door at the back of the main stacks. I deflate a little. Is this the room Artie thought I was talking about?
“Thanks.” I slip the Post-it in my pocket and head for the room. It’s small—or cozy, if you’re being polite—with a gas fireplace and a leather couch. There’s a Scrabble box on the coffee table and a floor-to-ceiling rotunda-style bookcase. There’s no overhead light—just a faint glow afforded by the sconces on the walls.
I trace my finger along the shelf toward the bottom, past Schuyler, Shelley, before I land on Shakespeare’s Complete Works: Sonnets. I thumb through to forty and read it to myself, lingering on the last two lines.
Lascivious grace, in whom all ill well shows,
Kill me with spites yet we must not be foes.
Is this a clue or something? A riddle buried in some obscure Shakespearean sonnet? I don’t have time for this crap. I’m about to close the book when the light catches the page, revealing a series of scratches in the white space at the bottom of the page.
I run my fingers over it. Something is written here.
I hold my phone over the page for more light, but it’s hard to tell if the scratches are letters or numbers. I fumble in my bag for a pencil. Once I find one, I place the Post-it note over the markings and shade the area with my pencil. Chelsea and I used this technique to trade notes in middle school.
I hold the Post-it note up to the light to study the impression.
UP – 3
RIGHT – 8
My gaze drops to where the book of sonnets was. I hold that place with one hand, and count in my head. The book up three spaces and eight to the right is a Norton anthology of poetry. It’s a beast of a thing; I have to use both hands to dislodge it.
I’m about to give up, leave, and ask Artie why he led me on a poetry wild goose chase when I notice some sort of metal fixture at the back of the shelf, behind where the Norton anthology was. I reach and feel around the area.
It’s a latch. I pull on it, not expecting the loud click that
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